an empty splendour over the broad sandy road, with the acacias
pricking up on each side of it and the gardens of the station
bungalows stretching back into clusters of crisp shadows. It was an
exquisite February night, very still. Nothing seemed abroad but two
or three pariah dogs, upon vague and errant business, and the
Executive Engineer going swiftly home from the club on his bicycle.
Even the little shops of the bazaar were dark and empty; only here
and there a light showed barred behind the carved balconies of the
upper rooms, and there was hardly any tom-tomming. The last long
slope of the road showed us the river curving to the left, through a
silent white waste that stretched indefinitely into the moonlight on
one side, and was crowned by Akbar's fort on the other. His long
high line of turrets and battlements still guarded a hint of their
evening rose, and dim and exquisite above them hovered the three
dome-bubbles of the Pearl Mosque. It was a night of perfect
illusion, and the illusion was mysterious, delicate, and faint. I
sat silent as we rolled along, twenty years nearer to the original
joy of things when John and I drove through the same old dream.

Dacres, too, seemed preoccupied; only Cecily was, as they say,
herself. Cecily was really more than herself, she exhibited an
unusual flow of spirits. She talked continually, she pointed out
this and that, she asked who lived here and who lived there. At
regular intervals of about four minutes she demanded if it wasn't
simply too lovely. She sat straight up with her vigorous profile
and her smart hat; and the silhouette of her personality sharply
refused to mingle with the dust of any dynasty. She was a contrast,
a protest; positively she was an indignity. 'Do lean back, dear
child,' I exclaimed at last. 'You interfere with the landscape.'